


A Flowerbox in the Window

by carpfish



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angel and Demon AU, College AU, Hatemance, Inexplicit Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpfish/pseuds/carpfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Imayoshi Shouichi x Hanamiya Makoto drabbles and oneshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Flowerbox in the Window

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a future college!AU that may or may not be expanded further upon in other drabbles, hence Hanamiya having his own apartment. Forgive me for the gratuitous application of several of my SAT vocabulary words.

Shouichi wakes up blinking the morning sunlight from his bleary eyes. He reaches across the bed to fetch his glasses, knowing that the space next to him is already vacated. As expected, the other side of the blanket has long been devoid of human warmth. Adjusting his glasses while giving a catlike stretch, he rolls onto his side to catch sight of a fully-dressed Makoto on the other side of the bedroom. Shouichi chooses just to watch the younger boy go through his daily routine of watering and maintaining a meticulously-kept flower box hanging out the window. Blooms of all sorts spill out of the cubicle, leaves, petals and vines transcending their intended boundaries and creeping onto the walls of their owner’s apartment. Shouichi hates those flowers with a burning passion.

“Morning, Hana-chan,” Shouichi trills with a sing-song tone and a disingenuous smile. Propping up his cheek with a hand, he watches Makoto’s reaction- or rather lack thereof- as the younger male sets his spray bottle on his desk without so much as a glance towards the naked man in his bed. It is only after he has finished tending to his precious flora that he pays any mind to his guest.

“I have class until noon. I want you gone by then,” are his uncaring instructions before Makoto hoists his bag onto his shoulder and exits the room. Shouichi waits for the sound of the front door opening and shutting before he breathes out a soft sigh. Clambering out from under the sheets, he inspects the ache of his muscles and scratch marks on his back from last night’s proceedings before starting to look for his clothes.

The first time, the both of them had been heavily inebriated, and Makoto’s apartment had been the closest to the bar. Shouichi remembers little of that time other than pushing his junior up against the wall of the outside corridor, rutting against each other like animals, nipping the younger boy’s lower lip until he drew blood, and the way that Makoto’s hands had tightened in his hair at the pain. The ensuing morning had begun with a passive-aggressive note of complaint pinned onto the apartment door, and he’d had thought that was the end of it. Of course, when Makoto had crawled into his lap the next week while the two of them had been studying together, it was clear that Shouichi had been mistaken.

Makoto’s malicious and willful behavior in bed manifests itself as long red claw-marks down Shouichi’s back, or in countless welts all over his shoulders from where the younger male’s nails have dug in too deep. On more than one occasion has Shouichi had to conceal rings of dark bruises surrounding his neck or painful but marks, and it is at times such as these that he wonders if this arrangement is more trouble than it’s worth. But Shouichi, human as he is, cannot deny the appeal of hearing Makoto yowl and hiss from pain and pleasure, seeing the younger boy’s back arch sharply off the mattress at the moment that he slides the tip into slick, tight warmth. These are the things that keep him susceptible to Makoto’s advances time after wretched time.

Sometimes, after fucking, Makoto will curl up like a cat next to Shouichi in post-coital embrace, and fall asleep in the older boy’s arms. Shouichi always does his best to not let these instances bother him.

These brief displays of genuine affection always dissolve with the morning sun, up to the point that Shouichi half-suspects that they are merely tired delusions that his mind has conjured to torment him with. Makoto is never there when Shouichi wakes up, and it is often that the older male is left only with nebulous scrawled notes instructing him to get out of the apartment as soon as possible. The few times that he is able to see his host in the morning, Makoto has been cold and unsentimental, any and all traces of passion from the previous night having completely disappeared.

In the end, Shouichi is always left by himself in a bedroom that would barely look inhabited if not for the few books propped on the shelf and the august presence of the window box. The wildly branching leaves and flowers seem to take up all the air in the room, making the space feel much smaller than it really is. Looking at the bright orange lilies, the proudly standing hydrangeas, the smiling sunflowers and subdued geraniums, Shouichi can almost imagine them smirking at him in a way not unlike their caretaker.

Shouichi has watched Makoto quietly maintaining the well-being of these weeds many times, whether it be replacing the soil, adding drops of fertilizer, or sometimes even bringing the flower box inside during particularly violent storms. It strikes him as sadly fascinating that Makoto may perhaps show more concern for these flowers than he does for any human being.

Shouichi is dressed in five minutes and gone by six, exiting the bedroom while making a noticeable effort not to look at the flower box. Shouichi really does hate those flowers with a burning passion.  


	2. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the second Touou-Seirin match

**Enjoy the match?”**

The words hit the air between them like a bullet, cracking the tense barrier of silence that’s permeated the entire hallway. Makoto’s gaze shifts, as if he’d suddenly remembered something, and he dismisses the rest of his team with a wave. “I’ll catch up with you guys” are his only instructions, and save for several curious looks cast over shoulders, his orders go unquestioned. Shouichi almost envies the control that his junior has as a captain- god knows that he’d never be able to get Aomine or Wakamatsu to obey him like that. 

Now they are the only people in the stadium corridor. Makoto’s glare is guarded, wary of any sudden tricks that Shouichi may or may not try to pull, and the Touou captain can’t help but think it resembles a cornered animal. Shouichi knows that he need not repeat the question and continues to observe the younger boy’s reactions. Surprisingly little has changed in two years, at least on the surface. Makoto’s hair is slightly longer, he’s grown marginally taller, and his expression still holds a hint of that unfathomably irritating sneer at all times. 

**“I came here to see Seirin get crushed.”**

Makoto’s tone is crisp, as sharp and cutting as the words he speaks. As he holds his gaze to against Shouichi’s, his eyes tell stories of anger spiraling in many different directions at once and the biting shame of defeat endlessly battling for dominance. Both are emotions that Shouichi is familiar with, and knows to expect from Makoto at a time such as this. But what pleases Shouichi the most is that amid the unfocused rage is a seething message of  _I hate you._

**“So you didn’t come to watch me play, Hana-chan?”**

The trademark Imayoshi Smile is plastered all over Shouichi’s face, simply because he knows how much Makoto hates it and how little of his mind it allows the younger boy to read. Despite his genius, there is a limit to the Uncrowned King’s powers of analysis, and Shouichi has always, always been the one to manipulate and test those limits. He watches the subtle stiffening of Makoto’s back and the way that Makoto’s fingernails almost cut into his palm, the way they used to dig into Shouichi’s shoulders. Makoto’s lip curls upwards in a snarl, but the corners of his mouth turn upwards as if smirking. 

**“Well, I guess you played well enough, Shouichi.”**

For a moment, Makoto’s expression loosens into a reluctant smile, breaking his stare to look at to the side. Shouichi’s smile falters, because all he sees before him is a beaming, bratty little middle-schooler, not the Spider of Kirisaki Daiichi, and it jolts him, just slightly. He recovers quickly, but not without the realisation that Makoto may in fact, have learned several new tricks since they last spoke. By this point, Shouichi is more familiar with Makoto’s little habit of dishonesty than the shorter boy would prefer, so he knows perfectly well what’s coming next. However, for a mere second, Shoichi allows himself to entertain the notion that Makoto’s smile may be genuine. 

The predicted sneer and statement of, “as if I would say that, dumbass” follows as expected, and Makoto’s eyes almost light up at the brief flash of something that crosses Shouichi’s face. 

**“This was your last match with Touou, wasn’t it?”**

Makoto throws this out into the conversation with a flippant air, even stuffing his hands into his pockets in a show of disdain. This sort of comment in addition with the fresh wound of defeat and the pain of longing would break a normal person, but no one is better than Shouichi at defying the will of others. Makoto knows that this attack won’t get a rise out of his senior.

Shouichi’s smile stretches wider, and he nods in response. “I’m graduating this year after all,” he reasons with a casual shrug. The words do have their sting; Shouichi is still human after all, but he’s adept not showing it. 

There’s a short hesitation before Makoto turns on his heel, presumably to meet up with his teammates. Shouichi doesn’t even need to look to know that he’s smirking as he leaves. The younger boy’s footsteps echo throughout the empty hallway, growing softer as he travels further away. Watching Makoto’s retreating form, Shouichi is somehow reminded of a graduation that took place on a spring afternoon several years ago.


	3. Sas Birthday Oneshot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning(s): Violence, somewhat abusive relationship, the general fucked-upness that you’d expect from this pairing, sex, rambling, wordfart
> 
> 11-11-12. Happy birthday, Sas. All hail the Ship of Bastards.

(I)

It’s been five months since he and Shouichi started living together; five relatively uneventful months in which neither of them have managed to successfully off one another, although Makoto knows that at least on his part, this is not for lack of attempt. Shouichi, on the other hand, is far too crafty and far too subtle to outwardly show any hatred or ill will towards his flatmate; let alone admit to any homicidal schemes, whether they take effect or not. It’s quite an achievement (or quite a failure, depending on Makoto’s mood of the day and how he chooses to view the situation according to his frequent whims), considering that both of them were rather certain that they wouldn't last a week living in the same apartment without the police getting involved. Makoto internally confesses without repent that most of his visions of how the week would end involved Shouichi dying a horribly slow death in an alleyway. Despite all initial doubts however, routine has settled into its dull trod, and both inhabitants have miraculously managed to integrate the presence of a rival asshole in the immediate vicinity into their daily habits. 

(II)

Makoto knows for a fact that he and Shouichi were not the only ones who thought that this scheme of cohabitation would end with manslaughter; Kentarou went silent for an entire thirty seconds on the other end of the line when his former captain offhandedly mentioned this new development in one of their telephone conversations. Kazuya’s gum dropped right out of his mouth when he was first informed. Makoto's also half sure that Furuhashi’s monthly calls hide the motive of checking that their former captain is still alive. It’s almost endearing, the loyalty that they hold to him even after they've all graduated and parted ways; Makoto would call it a sense of camaraderie if he placed any stock in such emotions.

(III)

The mornings are usually slow and quiet. Makoto is a ruthlessly early riser, and refuses to deviate from his daily ritual of watering the flower box that he places outside the window of the apartment’s bedroom. Shouichi- on the other hand- typically makes a point not to join the realm of the living until after ingesting a second cup of steaming hot coffee. Makoto could have easily poisoned these morning beverages many times, taking advantage of his foe while the older man is still sluggish and uncoordinated from sleep, but there exists an unspoken armistice between the both of them: Makoto will not touch Shouichi’s coffee; in turn, Shouichi will refrain from setting Makoto’s flowers (which the glassessed man has an inexplicable grudge against, Makoto has learnt) on fire. Seeing as both items have near sacred importance to their respective owners, the truce has been upheld thus far. 

(VI) 

Much to the displeasure of both parties, Shouichi and Makoto find their ways into each others’ beds more often than not, and the lack of sobriety can only be held accountable for a certain portion of these occasions. It was eventually decided that having one bed that fit the both of them was probably the most economic choice. Makoto firmly insists that he agreed only due to financial reasons. Shouichi smiles knowingly in the way that makes Makoto want to cut those lips off his face. 

(V)

It’s always a strange sensation when Makoto wakes up to the sight of Shouichi’s sleeping face. This situation has occurred often enough to be a familiar one, even before they'd moved in together, but every morning, Makoto spends several moments in static observation, considering his options and wondering what to do. 

Shouichi doesn't sleep with his glasses on, and it surprisingly makes him appear less menacing; in fact, his entire composure seems much more relaxed and vulnerable when he’s not conscious. Having spent high school with Kentarou, Makoto is no stranger to the sleeping faces of others, but it’s difficult to explain how he feels when he watches Shouichi’s chest rise and fall with every calm breath. Makoto’s first instinct is a sort of relief; the knowledge that those cunning eyes aren’t watching his every move, those dishonest lips aren’t curved into their infuriatingly seamless smile, that masterful mind isn't plotting his demise at every turn. But the base of the emotion is much more visceral and hateful than that. 

Every morning, Makoto knows that it would be easy- just so very easy- for him to end the bastard right then and there. He could just wrap his hands around that pale throat, feel the smooth skin on his palms and fingertips, trace the hard ridge of his collarbones and the bulge of his Adam’s Apple, and just squeeze. Makoto wonders what it would feel like to sense the collapse of Shouichi’s windpipe under his grip, hear the choking gasps as Shouichi struggles and gasps for air to no avail, the widening of Shouichi’s eyes and the horrific, wonderful look of utter terror when he realises that-

At that point, Makoto stops himself, because he knows that Shouichi would never show that sort of fear. If anything, the man would just be smiling as widely as always, goading Makoto on and daring him to finish the job. 

Makoto suspects that, from the gleam in Shouichi’s eyes, the older boy knows what flashes through his junior’s mind when Makoto leaves rings of bruises around his neck in the nighttime. He never mentions it, but he knows. That’s why he never actually goes through with it.

(VI)

The sex is a large part of the compromise, of course. Makoto hates Shouichi, and in return, Shouichi hates Makoto; it’s the perfect partnership. It’s something cheap and ugly and spiteful, and dear god, does it hurt. It hurts when Shouichi pushes a finger dry without any preparation whatsoever; it hurts when Makoto rakes his nails down Shouichi’s back, scratching and clawing as if he wants to rip the skin off; it hurts when Shouichi bites Makoto’s lip during kisses, or when Makoto sinks his teeth into Shouichi’s shoulder. Most of all, it hurts like hell in the morning when Makoto tries and fails to walk without a limp, and Shouichi has to find creative ways to hide all the cuts and scars and bruises that have been left on him, finally resorting to makeup of all things. 

Neither of them is in this for the pleasure, but both parties know that they need this. The pain and the satisfaction of causing pain is what they get out of it, and it’s a well-known fact that they’re both sadists to the highest degree. This is the only way that they can acknowledge one anothers’ existence.

(VII)

It’s striking at times, when Makoto realises that they may actually be mistaken for a couple. Makoto understands that to the rest of the world, it’s obvious conclusion; but the fact that it’s so far off from the actual truth just staggers him. They live together and have sex together, that much is true. However, Makoto is certain that real couples have never had the urge to sink knives into each others’ chests, to soak their hands with their partner’s blood and laugh. Makoto enjoys hurting things because it makes him happy- and as evidenced, he at least attempts to cause pain to most people and most things that he comes across. That’s just the sort of person he is. But Shouichi is the first person who’s ever desired to hurt Makoto with an equal vigor, and this changes things completely. Makoto doesn’t just want to hurt Shouichi- he wants to kill him. 

He wants to be the one responsible for Shouichi’s last breaths, the one that watches the light dim from his eyes, and hear his very last heartbeat. He wants to see Shouichi die, because this world isn’t made to contain the both of them together. 

(VIII)

Makoto conveniently forgets all the times he just watches Shouichi without thinking, without questioning. Sometimes, it’s when the older boy is poring over one of his law books, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, and his hand rising to adjust them ever so often. Sometimes it’s when Shouichi stands shirtless at the bathroom sink, applying concealer to all the marks from the night before marring his skin, and his teeth unconsciously gnaw at his bottom lip- a habit of his when he’s concentrating hard on something. Sometimes, it’s the sight of Shouichi’s back as he turns to leave. 

The last one of these, Makoto remembers very clearly, and it’s the one that he most fervently wishes to forget. 

(IX)

Sometimes after sex, when Shouichi thinks that Makoto is asleep, he will trace patterns on the skin of the other’s back. The pads of Shouichi’s fingers are rough and warm from many years of handling a ball on court, but they’re all softness and delicacy when they draw swirling lines and tickling circles around Makoto’s shoulder blades and down his spine. To this day, Makoto hasn’t told him that he’s usually awake during these times, although he’s certain that Shouichi already figured that out a long time ago. What really baffles Makoto is why Shouichi does it, and why he hasn’t stopped.

(X)

Shouichi’s a devil in the courtroom, or so Makoto’s heard. However, his own experience with the man should be enough to convince him that Shouichi would be able to earn Satan himself a ‘not guilty’ verdict if the devil were willing to cough up the cash. Frankly, neither Makoto nor anyone else who knows Shouichi is the least bit surprised. Makoto finds it a bit more difficult to come up with murder plans and fantasies on those days when Shouichi comes back with a fox’s smile in his face and the glint in his eye that tells Makoto that he’s managed to win yet another case, and in the process, completely fuck up the mind of the opposition. 

Likewise, when Makoto returns from business meetings looking more smug than usual, Shouichi immediately knows that the younger boy has somehow bound some unsuspecting competitor into a lucrative and ultimately malicious contract that will most likely result in them losing half of their company to young, polite Hanamiya-san. It’s hard for them to hate each other in the face of others’ suffering. 

(XI)

It’s been years since he and Shouichi started living together, and Makoto sometimes wonders how they managed to survive all this time. More often though, he wonders why the hell he puts up with all this shit, and why he doesn’t just choke Shouichi in the mornings like wants to. 

He never does, though. And Shouichi never kills him either.

Maybe that really sums it up better than either of them can ever express.


	4. BPS - Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Makoto is an angel and Shouichi is the serpent. Written for the basketballpoetsociety character battle.

It's hard for anyone else to believe, but Makoto had been so pure when Shouichi had found him.

The boy's wings had been so wide and so white, lying prone in a bed of the flowers that he'd been named for, and no-one can say that Shouichi has no appreciation for beautiful things, because that first day, he swears he must have watched Makoto for hours on end. He watched those eyes that sparkled with intelligence, strands of dark hair that Shouichi wanted to curl around his finger, inquisitive brows that danced upon his features, betraying his slightest emotion, and the perfect cupid's bow arch of his lips. Shouichi had taken these sights and engraved them into his memory, so that he would be the only person who could remember, the only who knew what existed before the fall. 

Shouichi plucked those clean white feathers off the boy's back one by one, toying with the downy softness between his fingertips before letting them float slowly downwards, landing on the ground to be crushed underfoot. 

One feather lost between soft kisses behind a tree in the garden. Another feather lost when Makoto had entwined his fingers with Shouichi's. Two more ripped from their roots when Makoto gave a small sigh when Shouichi touched him there, then there. 

When Shouichi sees his cruel, cold smile reflected on Makoto's lips, he knows that his task is complete. He leaves Makoto with his wings ripped and shredded, screaming until his throat bleeds ragged, with fire in his eyes and unadulterated hatred twisting his scowl. 

Shouichi burns this sight into his memory, because he is, after all, an admirer of beauty.


End file.
